


Spring Fancy

by Lindenharp



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Humor, Inspired by Poetry, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-28
Updated: 2019-05-28
Packaged: 2020-03-20 16:01:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18995914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lindenharp/pseuds/Lindenharp
Summary: "In the Spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love."





	Spring Fancy

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Spring Challenge in the Lewis Challenge community on Dreamwidth. My thanks to Sasha1600 for encouragement and beta work.

It's a sunny May afternoon, so Lewis suggests they walk to their next destination—an interview at Keble with a witness in a cold case. The park is filled with students enjoying the weather and each other. There's nothing actionable happening, nothing that crosses the line to public lewdness, though a few couples seem particularly enthusiastic.

Lewis asks suddenly, "What's that line about young men and spring?"

"In the Spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love," James replies. "Tennyson."

He considers adding the title of the poem, then promptly discards the idea. He's learned, in their years working together, not to give more information than requested. Unless he thinks it's relevant. Or wants to provoke his governor into an amused grumble about smartarse sergeants. Lewis needs that sometimes, needs the relief from the tensions of the job. James regards it as his duty to provide good-natured sniping, as Lewis's bagman... and his friend.

He'd like to be more than a friend to Lewis (in the privacy of his thoughts, he calls him 'Robbie'), but he knows it's impossible. He tries not to think about it when they're together—or at least, not at work. Sometimes when they're at a pub, he feels an impulse to reach across the table to clasp those strong, capable hands between his own. Sometimes at night, after a few too many solitary glasses of wine, he lies in bed, imagining a Geordie-accented voice whispering obscene promises of things to come. With his eyes closed, it's Robbie's fingers gliding down his belly with tantalizing slowness, Robbie's hand clamped around his cock, Robbie's name on his lips as he finally comes.

"What do you think?" Robbie asks.

"What?" He can feel his face reddening. James curses silently. Of all the stupid times to fall into an erotic reverie about his governor... "Sorry, what were you asking?"

Lewis gives him a long, searching look before repeating his question, having to do with Dr Rajamurthy's original witness statement.

The next day, they get a new case. The murder doesn't take long to solve, but it's a grueling twenty hours before the suspect is in custody. The murderer's delight in his gruesome handiwork leaves James more than a little shaken. Once the essential paperwork is done, Innocent shoos them out of the nick, with instructions not to return the following day.

"Go home and get some rest," she says firmly. That's an order both of them will be glad to follow.

"D'ye want to drop by the Trout first, and have a pint?" Lewis asks.

"No, thanks," James replies. And then, fatigue sweeping aside caution, he tells the truth. "I'm just going to go home and get as drunk as humanly possible."

"No, you will not."  And while James is fumbling for a suitably snarky reply, Lewis adds, “If you must get mortal, come back to mine and do it where I can keep an eye on you.“

James is trying to summon up the energy to say that he's an adult who doesn't need a minder when he catches a look in Lewis's eyes. Despite his decades of police experience, Lewis was also disturbed by the brutality of this case. Perhaps his governor doesn’t want to be alone tonight. "All right. Drinks _chez_ Lewis."

"Robbie," the older man corrects. "If we're off duty _and_ drinking to excess, it's first names. That's what mates do."

It sounds like a rule. _Robbie's Rules of Disorder_ , James thinks, and smiles for the first time since the call came in yesterday.

Drinking to excess at Robbie's place proves to be more comfortable than he expected. They both shed jackets and ties, and settle on the sofa. Robbie opens the cupboard beneath a small end table that serves him as a drinks cabinet. He studies the contents and pulls out a bottle. "I reckon this will do well enough."

It's Scotch whisky—a blend, but a reputable label. James nods.

Robbie produces two glasses and pours a generous splash in each. "Cheers."

James echoes him and downs the whisky in one swift gulp. He glances at Robbie. There's no frown, no look of concerned disapproval. He reaches for the bottle and pours himself another drink, and this time he sips it. There's no hurry, after all.

* * *

James never thought that he was a talkative drunk. Then again, he tends to be a solitary drinker, and of course, he doesn't talk to himself. That would be foolish, as he already knows what he has to say. But here with Lewis— _Robbie_ , he must remember that—he finds he has a great deal to say. And Robbie is an excellent listener. He will listen to James talk about almost anything (except theology, which he calls 'that God stuff'), which is just as well, because when James has been drinking, he tends to be a little forgetful, and confuse John Chrysostom with Peter Chrysologus or Cyril of Alexandria with Cyril of Jerusalem.

That's all right. There are plenty of other things to talk about. Poetry, for example. Robbie is happy to listen to James recite quite a lot of poetry. He claims not to know any poems himself, other than nursery rhymes and a few bawdy limericks, but when pressed for a contribution, sings "Blaydon Races" in a rough but pleasing baritone.

There's a short pause in the evening's activities for food (leftover spag bol), trips to the loo, and, on Robbie's insistence, downing a tumbler of cold water ("Your head will thank me tomorrow"). With these essential needs tended, they return to the important business of drinking.

After a short lecture on the comparative merits of football vs rugby, Robbie asks James to recite again the bit about young men and spring. James obliges.

"Do you think it's true?" Robbie asks.

"That depends, sir—Robbie. Is it the seasonality of the assertion that you doubt,  or the nature or the intensity of the emotion?"

"All of them," Lewis replies, "though I suppose it's mostly the season I was wondering about. Human beings aren't birds or frogs or..." He waves his hands in a you-know-what-I-mean gesture.

"Very true. We're not driven by the calendar. We can control our... fancies."

Robbie nods. He looks suddenly sad. "Yeah. We can."

"I have hid my feelings, fearing they should do me wrong."

"What's that?"

_Christ, did I say that aloud?_ “It’s... erm... another line from the same poem.” That’s true, but it’s not the next line. What will he say if Robbie asks him why he recited that particular line?

Robbie doesn't ask. He's staring off into the middle distance. "I have hid my feelings," he repeats. He scowls. "Sometimes, feelings have got to be hid. When they're inappropriate."

"You've got no right to say that!"

"I've got every right!" Robbie protests.

James shakes his head so emphatically that he thinks it may fall off. "Just because you're my governor, sir, doesn't mean you can degi—, degri—, erm, _den_ igrate my feelings."

"I'm not talking about your feelings, you muppet—I'm talking about _my_ feelings. My inappropriate feelings."

"Ohhhhh..." James squints at Robbie. "My feelings are inappropriate, too."

Robbie blinks. "If we're both inappropriate, doesn't that cancel out? Like those thingummies in science? Protons and... negatrons? They collide and turn into light or summat." With his hands, he mimes two colliding thingummies. "Pow!"

"Pow," James echoes. Robbie is so clever. "What now? Can we collide now? I want to collide with you."

Robbie nods solemnly. "Let's go in the bedroom, bonny lad. If we're going to collide, I want my orthopaedic mattress."

* * *

James awakens slowly. His head is muzzy, but there isn't much pain—none of the sharp throbbing he associates with a really bad morning after. _Guess I didn't drink as much as I planned._ He lies still, opening his eyes just a crack, and letting the morning light filter in. The light is wrong, somehow. It's coming from the wrong direction. Cautiously, he opens his eyes all the way, and stares at a wall that is the wrong colour. A muffled groan to his left makes him roll over and stare into the sleep-fogged eyes of Robbie Lewis. _Oh, God_...

"G'morning."

In his mind, he replays the events of the previous evening, ending with their getting into Robbie's bed. _What happened after that?_ He's not sure which is worse: that he might have had drunken sex with Robbie, or that he might have forgotten having sex with Robbie. James shifts slightly under the duvet. He's still wearing his briefs, and can't feel any evidence of... amorous activity. He forces himself to speak calmly. "Good morning, Robbie. Do you suppose we could skip over the apologies and the awkward conversation, and cut straight to the part where we agree to forget that last night ever happened?"

"All right," Robbie says agreeably.

Why doesn't he feel relieved? "Okay. Good... thanks."

"I was blathering like a fool last night—"

"Yes, well, I didn't exactly—"

"I was hoping for a do-over," Robbie blurts out.

"What?"

"Most of last night is best forgotten. We were both pissed, and not making much sense, but... _in vino veritas_..."

James stares. " _In vino_ —" Maybe he's still drunk, or having an alcohol-fueled dream about being in bed, mostly naked, with a Latin-spouting Robbie Lewis.

Robbie chuckles. "A man can't spend all those years in Oxford—especially working with Morse—and not pick up a bit of Latin along the way. Of course, we weren't drinking wine, and I don't know how to say whisky in Latin—"

" _Aqua vitae_ ," James replies reflexively.

"—but the point is the same. There was truth mixed in with the blather. We've both got... feelings." He pauses, and those searching eyes transfix James. "Unless I misunderstood?"

James's heart is pounding in counterpoint to the throbs in his head. "No. No, you didn't misunderstand."

Robbie nods. "Well, then—" He waves his right hand in a familiar 'it's all settled' gesture.

"What now?"

"Now? I want a shower. And coffee. Maybe a bit of toast." Robbie smiles at what James knows must be a look of dismay on his own face. "Don't fret, soft lad. We'll get to more interesting activities later. And I daresay you'll enjoy them more after some coffee and a couple of paracetamol."

James shoves aside his disappointment. It's not that he can't wait. He's not a randy teenager, and it would be good to banish his headache before engaging in any kind of activity. He just wants something to convince him that this is real.

Robbie is studying him. "I've been thinking about that poem. 'In the Spring a young man's fancy _lightly_ turns to thoughts of love.'"

James catches the emphasis. "I'm not that young," he protests.

"No, you're not," Robbie agrees. "I think my gran would have called you an old soul. But that's not my point. _I'm_ not a young man, James. I don't do this lightly." He leans forward with deliberate slowness, allowing James plenty of time to object or move away.

James closes the distance between them. Their mouths meet in a kiss that is brief and fierce and satisfying.

Robbie pulls back just far enough to look at him. "Never had much use for poetry, but right now, I wish I knew some. That was..." He looks expectantly at James, waiting for him to supply the right words.

James's mental storehouse of poetry covers two millennia and three or four languages. He frowns, searching for the _mot juste._ He considers and rejects words crafted by some of the world's most brilliant minds. "That kiss was... it was..." And then he grins. "Pow."

 

\--- THE END ---

 

**Author's Note:**

> The oft-quoted line that inspired this story is from the poem [Locksley Hall](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/45362/locksley-hall) by Tennyson. It is not a love poem in the traditional sense. The narrator recalls how, years ago, he and his cousin confessed their love to each other, but she betrayed him by allowing her parents to pressure her into marriage with an unworthy man.


End file.
